The Book of Christmas Virtues (9 page)

“It's all right with me, Jimmy.” I tilted my head and looked up the full length of him. “What have you been doing?”

“Well, I got a four-year football scholarship, and I've made the dean's list every semester. I graduate in June.”

“Great work. I bet you've signed a pro contract already. Big bucks, you know.”

“Yeah, I've had a few offers, but I'm not goin' into the pros.”

“No kidding. Why not, Jimmy?”

“I have other plans.”

“Oh?”

“I finished my student teaching last week, Doc.” He smiled when I registered surprise. “I've decided to be a teacher—just like you.” For a quiet moment, Jimmy gazed over my shoulder . . . and into the past. “I know you fellas invented those classroom jobs for me.” He cleared his throat. “You helped me keep my dignity, and I've never forgotten.”

I felt a lump in my own throat as Jimmy looked me full in the face.

“When teachers really care, students know it,” Jimmy said. “That's why I want to teach. I want to be there for my students the way you were there for me.”

What a Christmas gift,
I thought. And, a little teary eyed, we shook hands.

No longer teacher and pupil, we were now two men with the same hopes—and the same goals.

Edmund W. Ostrander

Surprise Santa

A few days before Christmas, a devout Christian couple held the hands of their young son and walked briskly to their nearby church. But the boy pulled back a bit, slowed and came to an abrupt halt.

“Santa,” he whispered. “Santa!”

The four-year-old broke free of his parents' grasp and ran toward an elderly gentleman with a long, flowing white beard.

Tugging on the stranger's coattail, the youngster begged, “Santa, will you bring me a teddy bear for Christmas?”

Embarrassed, the couple started to apologize, but the man merely waved them aside. Instead, he patted their son on the head, nodded once, winked wryly at the youngster and—without a word—went on his way.

On Christmas morning, a knock interrupted the family's festivities. In the doorway stood the old man holding out a large bear with a plaid bow around its neck.

“I didn't want the little fellow to be disappointed on his holiday,” he explained with an awkward grimace and turned to leave.

Uncomfortable and stunned, the parents could only stutter a weak, “Uh, th-thanks. And M-merry Christmas to you . . . Rabbi.”

Henry Boye

In the Bag

As I step from the damp winter chill into the warmth of Carmen's living room, her cocker spaniel announces my visit with high-pitched barking.

“I'm in here,” Carmen yells.

I pass the tabletop Christmas tree and find Carmen sitting in her wheelchair beside dozens of white paper bags standing at attention on the dining room table.

“Did you bring the goods?” she asks.

I nod, offering her thirty packets of Famous Amos cookies. Carmen smiles as I drop a package inside each sack. On Christmas Eve, Carmen delivers them to the thirty residents of Shalom House, a homeless shelter in Kansas City, Kansas, where her friend Mary Kay lives and works. I've heard about the bags for months and wanted to be a part of the fifteen-year tradition.

My understanding of homelessness is the guy on the freeway ramp carrying a cardboard sign asking for work or the men lying underneath bundles of blankets on the streets of Manhattan. Somehow, the packages of cookies seem too small an offering for men who need so much.

Seventy-five-year-old Carmen fastidiously prepares the Christmas gifts like a doyenne tending to a queen. A shiny red Christmas card, embossed with a picture of gift-bearing wise men, is neatly taped to each bag. “May the Peace of Christ Be with You” is written across the top.

Carmen's cheery disposition and sense of purpose belie a myriad of health problems. Besides diabetes and congestive heart failure, neuropathy has destroyed the feeling in her swollen fingertips. It takes her a long time to move a pen or tear off a piece of tape.

“Look at all the stuff in here,” I exclaim, noting that each bag already contains a razor, deodorant, Cheez-Its, Chex mix and other items buried on the bottom.

“There'll be more.” Carmen proudly rattles off the names of friends yet to bring goodies.

The tradition began with Christmas cards containing a few crisp dollar bills. Over the years, she added shampoo, a pair of socks, a snack. Regardless of her meager Social Security check, she managed to increase the gifts each year.

Friends started to offer contributions. How about candy? A pair of gloves? The project evolved into a group effort involving dozens, each contributing thirty identical items.

“This year's bags are worth seventy dollars each.” Carmen bobs her head in delight. “And they're stuffed so full that next Christmas I'll need even bigger ones!”

I wonder about the men at Shalom House and decide to visit the shelter after Christmas. It sits at the end of an empty lot, as abandoned as a beat-up toy. The inside is clean and homey, but unexpectedly quiet this time of morning; the men left early, hoping to find work.

But Carmen's friend, diminutive Mary Kay, is here. Resident mother and grandmother of Shalom House, she tends its day-to-day operations with stoic perseverance— as she has for seventeen years now.

“By the time they arrive here, the men have no place left to go,” she says. “Shalom House represents hope— clean clothes, a hot meal, a bed and a family atmosphere. At least for a few days.”

When I admire the well-adorned Christmas tree in the corner of the dining room, Mary Kay invites me on a tour.

The back room is lined with fifteen metal-framed bunk beds. A stuffed panda swings from a red ribbon over bunk #14. Shirts hang from the rafters because there is no room for dressers or lockers. A large closet is full of clean shirts, pants, underwear and socks.

“Most of the men arrive with just the clothes on their backs,” she explains.

“What about Carmen's goodie bags?” I ask.

“Those sacks are the only present many of the men receive.” Mary Kay points to a bunk bed, and I recognize the unmistakable evidence of Carmen's trademark taped above it: a shiny red Christmas card embossed with the picture of gift-bearing wise men.

“And do the men enjoy the gifts?” I wonder, still worried that it's too little, too . . . insignificant.

But Mary Kay rolls her eyes. “They love them. Why, the men immediately sit on their bunks, pour out the contents and start bartering. They get as excited as little boys trading baseball cards!”

Back in my car, I sit for a minute and start brainstorming about what I can contribute to Carmen's project next year. Umbrellas would be nice. Woolly stocking caps could be good. Or maybe some hand warmers?

Sheila Myers

Stroke by Stroke

I pushed through the crowd huddled in winter coats. There lay Blackie in the snowy street. I fell at my collie's feet and spread my arms around her as if to protect her from further injury. Not a car stirred that cold Sunday morning—nothing moved at all except her soft tricolor fur and my tears.

“Why don't they come?” I looked at the sad faces above me. “Why don't they hurry?” I was sure
they
would save her life . . . unfortunately there was nothing left to save.

My parents led me away, while, hand stretched back to my beloved pet, I called out to her for the last time, “Blackie, oh, Blackie.”

Christmas joy extinguished as fast as the hit-and-run vehicle had skidded along the icy road. Tinsel on the tree lost its sparkle, stockings by the fireplace their promise, red and green chocolate kisses their sweetness. Without a collie curled up on the Oriental rug, gray became the holiday color.

Mom lost interest in her baking. My cousins no longer pinned sequins on Styrofoam balls. My brother abandoned his ice skates. Worst of all, the carols on the stereo could not be heard above my relentless wail. The crying jag took on a life all its own. Even Dad's lap, usually the solution for all problems, held no answers at this time.

Until Grandfather got involved. “Can't someone stop that noise?”

Startled, I held my breath . . . not certain it was safe to sob anymore.

My Aunt Veramina's gentle words softened the atmosphere. “Come with me to your room, Margaret, so I can brush your hair.”

My hand in hers, we followed the garland-wrapped banister up to the second floor of the big colonial house. She sat me down in a pink frilly chair and took my brush from the grooming set on the dresser top.

“Now, doesn't that feel better?” she asked as she loosened my long braids and with her competent hands, pulled the bristle brush through my thick auburn tresses.

The spasms of crying relaxed. A sniffle sputtered out. A whimper crept away. Finally, I filled my grief-weary lungs with one long restorative breath.

Under my aunt's soothing strokes of kindness, my head tilted back and forth. The rhythm, much like that of a rocking chair, changed the sadness of the day into the peace of the moment.

Sometime later, my braids and I bounced down the stairs. At my appearance in the living room, I heard a combined breath drawn. I leaned over the box of ornaments and, by coincidence, chose the large glass teardrop. This tear wasn't sad; it was merry, very merry—shocking pink with gold embroidered trim. When I hung it on the fragrant spruce, I felt a combined sigh of relief around me.

“Here,” said Grandfather, as he handed me his peace offering of fresh pecans. With aged fingers around a silver nutcracker and pick, he had labored to extract the meat of six unbroken pieces for his granddaughter.

“Thanks, they're my favorite.” I popped one into my mouth.

It seemed like someone suddenly flipped a power switch. The stereo hummed “Winter Wonderland.” Sequins whizzed onto Styrofoam balls, powdered sugar onto cookies. And my brother zoomed toward the door, skates over his shoulder, “Anyone wanna join me at the park?”

Funny how on that tragic day, all the season's colorful trimmings and trappings combined had not been able to restore Christmas joy like one plain bristle brush in my aunt's hands. To be sure, I never forgot Blackie. But within a few days, a new collie dog had curled up beside me on the Oriental rug.

Margaret Lang

A Slice of Life

Jean heaved another world-weary sigh. Tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear, she frowned at the teetering tower of Christmas cards waiting to be signed. What was the point? How could she sign only one name? That was half a couple, not a whole.

The legal separation from Don left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she could skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had cancelled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. After all, Christmas was supposed to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.

The doorbell's insistent ring startled her. Padding across the floor in her thick socks, Jean cracked the door open against the frigid December night. She peered into empty darkness. Instead of a friendly face—something she could use about now—she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the porch railing. From whom, she wondered, and why?

Under the bright kitchen light, she pulled out handfuls of shredded gold tinsel, feeling for a gift. Instead, her fingers plucked an envelope from the bottom. Tucked inside was a typed letter. No, it was a . . . story?

The little boy was new to the overpopulated orphanage, and
Christmas was drawing near,
Jean read. Caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.

From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous
tree to appear in the hall on Christmas Eve. Of scores of
candles that would light its branches. Of the mysterious
benefactor who made it possible each year.

The little boy's eyes opened wide at the mere thought.
The only Christmas trees he'd seen were through the
fogged windows of other people's homes. There was even
more, the children insisted. More? Oh, yes! Instead of the
orphanage's regular fare of gruel, they would be served
fragrant stew and crusty hot bread that special night.

Last and best of all, the little boy learned, each of
them would receive a holiday treat. He would join the
line of children to get his very own . . .

Jean turned the page. Instead of a continuation, she was startled to read: “Everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, wouldn't you agree? Watch for Part II.” She refolded the paper while a faint smile teased the corner of her mouth.

The next evening, Jean rushed home from work. If she hurried there was probably enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland but dropped it to race for the door when the bell rang. This time, she opened a red bag.

. . . to get his very own orange,
Jean read. An orange? That's a treat?